You, Again(56)

“Josh…” She swipes the back of her hand against her forehead. He can’t tell if her tone is in the realm of “letting you down gently” or “confused about my feelings, too.”

It’s selfish to want more from this. But he’s always been selfish.

He spins up a few possible responses, most notably: It just occurred to me that you’re the perfect height for me right now and if I just tilt my head down slightly—

“Can we—can we leave before the countdown?” She gulps a breath, like there’s not enough oxygen in the ballroom. “And the kissing?”

She looks over his shoulder with a pained expression and Josh pushes aside the uncomfortable truth that dancing with him apparently flipped her mood.

“We don’t have to kiss.”

“It’s just that…” He notices a sheen of sweat on her forehead. Despite their lethargic dancing, her breathing is rapid and shallow. “I need air.”

“Oh.” Fuck. “Of course. We can get out of here,” he says, hoping to fend off the possibility of a romance-induced panic attack. Fuckfuckfuck. “Do you want to go home?”

“I can’t. I rented out my apartment on Airbnb. I’m staying at Gabe’s.”

“Right.” His mind skims a quick geographical survey of their current location. “I think I know where we can go.”



* * *





“CONGRATULATIONS,” ARI CALLS out. Josh is a few steps ahead of her on the paved path, moving faster than she can manage in heels. “You’re the first and last man I will follow into a poorly lit park at eleven-fifty p.m.”

If there’s a trace of lingering awkwardness from when they abruptly left the gala, Ari is determined to push past it. Being outside in the freezing air helps, cooling her face and neck. It felt tropical in the library or the ballroom or whatever it was. She’d been breathing in too much Chanel No 5.

“There’s a good spot up here, just around this curve,” Josh says. They make their way down a path that meanders and loops through Central Park. They’d passed a surprising number of bundled-up pedestrians streaming in through the Seventy-second Street entrance to the south.

“I’ve never seen this many people here at night,” Ari says, stumbling on her heels as she ducks under a temporary barrier blocking off West Drive. “Are they here for the fireworks?”

“The New York Road Runners have a race every New Year’s.” He leads her across Oak Bridge, toward something that looks like a stone wall with a narrow arch, nestled between two giant rock outcrops. “They fire the starting pistol right at midnight and a thousand people run four miles around the park.”

“That’s an admirable commitment to physical fitness, considering the wind chill.” Ari takes careful steps, balancing on her toes. “Seems like a thing you would do—skip a party in order to exercise.”

“I don’t run outside,” he says. “Controlled conditions produce the best results. The treadmill helps me maintain focus and proper pacing.”

“…in bed,” Ari adds, a step behind him. “Do you do that with fortune cookies? Add ‘in bed’ to the end of the fortunes and they somehow make more sense?”

He shakes his head. “Those cookies are always stale and flavorless.”

His cookie standards must be as impossible to meet as his dating standards.

Though the trees are bare, they create an effective barrier from the cacophony that reminds her of New Year’s Eves past.

Ari feels a jolt of panic as her stiletto slips down the pavement, now slick with a thin coat of frost.

“Josh!” she shouts, barely catching her balance. “I can’t get down the hill in these shoes.”

He turns around, sizing up her predicament. “The ‘hill’? You mean this gentle slope that’s graded for wheelchair access?”

“Spoken like someone who’s never worn heels. Just give me your hand or something.”

Josh lets out a deep sigh, as if this is the biggest possible chore.

Ari grabs his hand, takes a tiny test step, and slips again. “Shit.” She looks up. “I’ll have to live here.”

With a shake of his head, Josh bends down, places his shoulder at her hip, and lifts her off the ground in one fluid motion.

“The hell?” she yelps, smacking him on the back, trapped in some kind of humiliating fireman carry.

“First, I don’t trust you not to take me down with you,” he says, heading down the slope. “Second, there’s finally a point to all the lumberjack presses and triceps dips I’ve been doing at the gym: lifting shopping baskets and women in non-functional shoes.”

“Hey!” she mutters. “Be careful where you put your hand, I can feel everything through this coat.”

“Watch your head.” He ducks down, passing through the arch to the other side. She can faintly catch the scent of his hair product.

“It’s not my head I’m worried about.”

“I’ll let you carry me on the way back.” He takes his damn time setting her back on her feet, with a grunt of effort. She tries to readjust her dress beneath her coat. There’s a good chance her breasts escaped their insubstantial constraints. “This spot is off the race route,” he says. “There’s a boarded-up cave somewhere around here.”